


Love and Blackmail

by Lirazel



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-11
Updated: 2009-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-05 01:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lirazel/pseuds/Lirazel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>  <em>"Love and blackmail are the gist of it."  Dawn knows exactly what her sister needs in order to move on after Sunnydale--and exactly how to make it happen.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/penny_lane_42/pic/00013aye/)

 

“Nothing gets past you, Little Bit,” Spike used to say admiringly back in their good times before Buffy came back from the dead (_and she’s more than aware of how messed up it is that the best times she had with Spike were the time they were both in hell_).  Of course, there were also times when he said it in annoyance when she caught him in the middle of an action of questionable morality, but even then, his affection for her shone through the words.  She likes to think about that now, about the good times, spending almost as much time as her sister reliving the happier (_or at least more crowded_) times back in Sunnydale (_with Spike, with Tara, with Anya.  With Mom_).

Unlike Buffy, however, Dawn knows how to keep living without veering between staying curled up in bed fantasizing about the past and going on manic shopping/dancing/dating sprees.  Dawn still pays attention to the moment, and that perceptiveness that Spike so praised hasn’t abandoned her at all (_although it’s pretty much the only thing that came out of Sunnydale alive, so there you go_).

Which is why, when Andrew gets back from his mission to L.A., Dawn instantly knows that he’s hiding something.  The little weasel (_okay, so he might technically be her best friend, but that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t know how ridiculous he can be_) is even jumpier and more nervous than usual, and whenever Buffy enters the room, he can’t meet her eyes and flees as soon as possible.

Buffy doesn’t notice, of course.  She doesn’t notice much of anything at all, between wallowing in bed with a pint of gelato and being squired around town by the Immortal, though every week or so she’ll remember that she’s neglecting her little sister and shower Dawn with attention for a day or two.  At fourteen, this pattern would have infuriated Dawn; she would have been certain that the “sister bonding times” were only prompted by guilt.  But she doesn’t think that anymore.  Buffy’s just mourning, and even if she’s doing it in ways Dawn doesn’t relate to, at least she has the chance.  Buffy’s never had time to mourn before.

And honestly, Dawn is a bit relieved that her sister has become so unobservant, because it means that she can grill Andrew herself and then take care of things.  She needs a new project.  She’s getting soft (_although that could just be the massive amounts of pesto and biscotti she’s been consuming.  She _loves_ Italian food_).

So after twelve days of Andrew squeaking with nervousness and lying outright whenever Dawn asks him about his trip to L.A. (_she can tell by the way his eyes go all shifty and his fingers twitch, not to mention the more frequent mentions of the Green Lantern and Captain Kirk_), she decides the time has come to take extreme action.

Three minutes of dangling his signed copy of Alan Moore’s _Swamp Thing_ over the paper shredder and Andrew starts to sweat.  Thirty seconds of holding his Boba Fetta action figure over the toilet with a threat of flushing and he starts to babble.  The mere suggestion of destroying his _Doctor Who_ VHS collection and the whole story comes out.

Dawn cries.

And then she gets mad.

And then?

She starts to plan.

\--

Things don’t go as smoothly (_read: quickly_) as she hoped.  For one thing, she knows she has to get the Immortal out of the way first, and that’s going to take some doing.

Dawn had taken one look at the “man” who called himself the Immortal and known that she’d found her nemesis.  She stood there with him in the living room of the apartment (_comfy-cozy in size when it had been just her and Buffy; far, far too small now that Andrew’s moved in, too_) while Buffy bustled around in her room fixing her makeup and changing shoes for the sixth time, and she turned the full force of the Dawn Summers Glare on him.

Sure, he was good-looking, all dark hair and well-cut suit and just enough cologne.  But Dawn smiled smugly because she knew that Buffy still cried over bleached-blond helmet hair, black t-shirts, and that cool nearly earthy aroma only the undead possess (_besides, Spike had a smile that made his eyes crinkle, and even through the long months when she clung to her bitterness at what happened in the bathroom between him and her sister, she gloried in the fact that she knew she was the person who’d seen him smile—really, genuinely smile—the most.  So she has nothing but disdain for the Immortal’s plastic charm_).

Dawn crossed her arms and lifted a brow.  The Immortal didn’t stand a chance.  Buffy would get a good dinner, a good dance, a goodnight kiss, but then she’d kick this poncey bastard to the curb (_the Spike-in-her-head started ranting as soon as she first laid eyes on the guy, and her thoughts of him are always accompanied by British insults_).

It doesn’t actually work out that way.  Night after night, Buffy goes out to the best restaurants, best clubs, best performances and comes back reeking of cologne and cigarette smoke, and Dawn realizes that she might have to take overt action.  The only reason she waits as long as she does is that the nancy git never stays over and, while Buffy may return extremely late, she never stays out all night.

But days turn into weeks, and Dawn gags every time she finds her sister and Mr. I-Use-Too-Many-Annoying-Italian-Pet-Names cuddled up on the sofa watching black and white movies and eating popcorn (_she used to do that with Spike because she’d told him that when they were younger—before Buffy’s schedule was completely taken over by her Slayer duties—she and Mom and Buffy would watch old movies on Tuesday nights.  Spike has seen like every movie ever, and he knew how to pick out the best ones, and how to say all the things Mom would have said, and those were the happiest times of that long, hard summer_), him whispering in her ear and her giggling in that way Dawn hasn’t heard since the Will-Be-Done spell when she was engaged to Spike.

There’s only so much she can take.

Time to put her plan into action.

\--

She starts small.  It’s always best to build your foundation carefully, after all.  So she makes sure to always be there when the Arch-Nemesis arrives to pick up Buffy, and she makes sure to drop all sorts of hints about how horrific Buffy is to live with whenever her sister darts out of the room (_“Say, did you know that Buffy gets really horrible morning breath?  Totally true.” “Gee, I hope Buffy remembered to take a shower after she got back from training.  You know how she is—she can be a little lax when it comes to personal hygiene.”  “I can’t believe how long I had to wait in line at the pharmacy today.  I was picking up Buffy’s prescription.  Oh, you know: the one for the rash?  Oh, she hasn’t mentioned it?  Yeah, she tends to be a little hush-hush about it.”_).

That doesn’t exactly work (_he just smirks at her, like he knows exactly what she’s doing.  Which, knowing him, he probably does_).  Not that she really expected it to.  That was just to soften him up while she works on the real plan.

As Andrew reminds her, every superhero needs sidekicks if she’s ever going to _defeat _her Arch-Nemesis, so Dawn calls a meeting.  Of course, the meeting consists of Andrew sprawled out on her floor flipping through a copy of  _SFX_ that he has shipped all the way here every month, Dawn herself sitting cross-legged on her bed painting her fingernails, and Lessie stretched out beside her idly braiding a lock of hair.

Andrew is prattling on about demons, of course.  “….or I could summon a Crasdadon demon.  Sure, the Immortal is a pretty great fighter and has all kinds of bodyguards and anyone in Rome would gladly take a bullet for him, but have you _seen _a Crasdadon?  They’re the size of Godzilla!  Actually, I’m pretty sure Godzilla _was_ a Crasdadon.”  He trails off for a moment, pondering the wonder of that idea.  “Anyway, it could just eat the Immortal in one bite.  Crunch, crunch, crunch and then—digestion.”

“Yeah, Andrew, and how are you going to keep it from doing to Rome what Godzilla did to Tokyo?  Too much collateral damage, a huge waste of energy for something as small as reverse matchmaking, and you _know_ that the demons you summon tend to turn on you.”  Dawn screws the bottle of nail polish shut, shakes it thoroughly, opens it again, and starts to work on her other hand.  “There are some spells—a delusting one, maybe.  We’d need raven feathers, though—“

“_Children_,” Lessie says firmly, sitting up and tossing her curls out of her eyes.  Lessie is really good at the hair-tossing thing.  Men like it.  They also like her dimples.  And her thickly-lashed eyes.  And her perfectly curvy figure.  Alessandra Di Luca might be her (_other, Andrew constantly reminds her_) best friend, but sometimes Dawn really hates her.  “This is why you should listen to the Slayer,” she says in her perfectly grammatical but gorgeously accented English.  “You are making this far too complicated!”

Dawn rolls her eyes.  “All right, your highness.  You have a better idea?”

Andrew pipes up from his place on the floor.  “Actually, Alessandra, I’m a Watcher and Dawn’s studying to be one.  And Slayers are supposed to always listen to their Watchers.  So you should listen to us.”

Lessie ignores him.  It had taken Dawn a while to convince her that the Immortal wasn’t all he appears to be.  Fortunately for Dawn, she quickly discovered that both Lessie and Andrew (_who has a crush on the Immortal nearly as big as the one he had on Spike_) had the same weakness: they love plotting.  Nothing less could have gotten them to turn on the Immortal and his perfection, but the young Slayer and the former super-villain swore their assistance when Dawn made it clear that this was going to be very special-ops.  Ever since, Lessie’s been almost as consumed by planning as Dawn herself. 

“It’s very, very simple, _Alba-mia_,” Lessie says now.  “Blackmail.”

“_Blackmail_?”  Andrew squeaks, sounding both horrified and skeptical—and like he thinks a Godzilla-sized demon prowling around Rome is a better idea.

“Blackmail,” Dawn echoes, drawing the word out, savoring it, flashing back to the thousands of times she held something over Buffy’s head: _“I’ll tell Mom if you don’t let me borrow your new sweater.”  “I’ll tell Mom if you don’t let me have the last of the double fudge ice cream.”  “I’ll tell Mom if you don’t let me go with you.”  _Blackmail.  The weapon of choice for little sisters everywhere.  Dawn is _very _good at blackmail.

She bounces up onto her knees.  “Lessie, you’re a genius!”

“I know,” Lessie giggles, instantly transforming from cool, sophisticated older girl to adorable, sweet companion.  Yet another reason Dawn sometimes hates her: Lessie has mastered both personas, and Dawn has yet to manage either one.  She still so often feels like the coltish, whining girl she knew everyone saw her as back in Sunnydale, crushing on older guys and having to be constantly rescued by her sister.  She’s not sure she’s figured out who she really is yet, and it can be painful to be around someone who has.  “Blackmail is always the answer,” the Slayer says, sweeping up the polish bottle before Dawn’s bouncing can knock it over and stain the bedspread.

“I thought love was always the answer,” Andrew points out, still looking dubious.

“Well, one or the other.  Usually, they go hand in hand,” Lessie allows with a shrug.

But Dawn has quit bouncing because something has occurred to her.  “But how can we get anything on him?  _Everyone _loves him.”

“Exactly.  Everyone loves him, and so when you want to talk about him, they will be happy to oblige.”

Dawn begins to grin again.  “So just let them talk long enough and sooner or later _someone _is bound to say _something _incriminating.”

“We only have to talk to the right people,” Lessie nods with an evil little smile.

Dawn vaults off the bed, grabbing her bag as she heads toward the door, Lessie right on her heels.

“Guys, I don’t know that this is such a good idea,” Andrew whines from the floor.  “I still think the demon plan is the best one.  Guys?

“...Guys?”

\--

Lessie was right.  It really _is_ that simple.  Dawn has never been so glad that Giles gave her a Watcher’s Council I.D. card.  Of course, he gave it to her so that she could study in the Vatican’s libraries—no one has as many rare, ancient, and priceless manuscripts, and as the world authority on exorcisms, many of them deal with demons—but he’d be surprised at how many other uses she’s found for it (_of course, he’s never going to know.  There are some things he doesn’t need to know for his own good_).  Rome is big on tradition, and a mention of the Watchers can get her almost anywhere.

Of course, then comes the boring part.  Dawn, sometimes with Andrew beside her, more often joined by Lessie as soon as the young Slayer escapes from Buffy’s training sessions, informs her contact that the Council is considering bringing the Immortal into the fold and making use of his considerable talents.  Seconds later, the person is raving.

Of course, that’s the challenge: staying awake long enough to separate anything useful from praise of the Immortal’s hair, his fashion sense, his cars, his shoes, his palace, his singing voice, his athletic prowess, his impeccable manners, his fighting abilities, his cologne, his choice of wine, his diplomatic skills, his mastery of languages, his eyes, his sense of humor—and, above all, his skills at lovemaking.  That’s the thing that freaks Dawn out: _every single one _of them praise to the heavens his abilities in bed.  _I mean, I guess if you were immortal, _she thinks as she listens to the thirty-third person launching into detail about just how attentive a lover the prat is_, you’d have time to get around.  But still!  Every person?  Maybe I should suggest to Buffy that she actually _check _for that rash I was lying about_.

“I just don’t get why anyone would want to be with someone that perfect,” she complains to Lessie as they leave the office of one of the world’s most famous fashion designers, his voice drifting after them still extolling the Immortal’s style and relating the time he absolutely saved his fashion show from ruin.  “I mean, wouldn’t that make you feel horribly, horribly incompetent?  Especially Buffy.  She’s a mess!  I always thought that’s why she ended up with Spike, anyway.  He’s the only one who could make her look like she had it together.”

Lessie shrugs.  “I suppose that if someone who is perfect desires you, that implies that you are worth something, no?”

“I guess.  But still.  He’s got that too charming to be real thing going on.”

“Still, it makes people eager to talk about him.  We can be thankful for that, at least.”

And it’s true.  Because slowly but surely, she’s building a list of ammunition.  She keeps it on an Excel document on Andrew’s Mac, protected behind six different passwords (_Buffy would rather face down another hell-god than take a look at Andrew’s computer—and Dawn doesn’t blame her for being terrified of what she’d find there—but the passwords make her feel more secure, not to mention more Bond-like.  And yeah, she guesses that makes Andrew Q_), and with each addition added, she can feel herself closer to her goal: Buffy’s happiness.

Most of the informants (_as Andrew insists on calling them_) don’t even notice they’ve said anything questionable, so Dawn just listens for a few more minutes, nodding and uh-huhing until she can slip out and go chase down whatever hints they’ve given her.  The few who do realize they’ve slipped up always look either horrified or penitent and Dawn magnanimously swears herself to secrecy, assuring them that _of course_ she wouldn’t _dream_ of telling anyone about anything so delicate.

Dawn, like all little sisters, is a very good liar.

\--

“What do you think?”

“I think I’m brilliant.”

“Whatever, Lessie.  You may have come up with the idea, but I’m the one who executed it.”

“And I provided invaluable technical support!”

“Be quiet, little boy.  _Alba-mia_, you know you wouldn’t have gotten anywhere with the Ambassador if it were not for me flirting with him, and his little tidbit is one of the juiciest we found.”

“I don’t have time to argue with you over this.  When I said, ‘What do you think?’ what I meant was, ‘Are we ready?’.”

“Definitely.”

“Dawn, I still don’t think trying to blackmail the Immortal is such a good idea.  He’s like Bond and Han Solo combined!  If Han Solo were a Jedi.”

“Andrew, get over it.  We’re ready.  And I’m going to do this thing tonight.  The Immortal’s gonna be history.  And then it’ll only be a few short days till Buffy’s smiling again—smiling like she means it.”

“Can we have code names?”

\--

It had been surprisingly easy to get Buffy out of the apartment.  Dawn had relented and let Andrew summon one of his demons—but a smaller one, a Fyarl—and Dawn had given an Oscar-worthy performance as “terrified little sister.”  Buffy had held out for a while, reminding Dawn that she had a date and that there were other Slayers to take care of these things now.  But Dawn had done the half-flattery, half-guilt trip performance she’s so very, very good at, and her sister had caved.

However, things had almost gone pear-shaped, as Spike would have said (_she’s never understood that phrase and always meant to get around to asking him about it, but she never had the chance_) when Buffy had picked up her cell phone to call the Immortal and cancel the date.

“No!” Dawn had winced at the vehemence in her voice.  Swallowing and speaking nonchalantly, she continued.  “I mean, he’s probably already left by now.  You run out and take care of this, and when he gets here, I’ll let him know that you’re running a bit late.  Then you can get a quick shower when you get back, and you’ll still have time to go out dancing, okay?”

With a huff, Buffy agreed and raced out the door, grabbing her scythe as she went and admonishing Dawn to _Be nice_ before disappearing, leaving Dawn to pace frantically.

Buffy hasn’t been gone fifteen minutes when Dawn hears a knock on the door (_and, God, how annoying is it that he even _knocks_ perfectly?_).  She forces herself to walk over to it, her hands sweaty, her heart thumping in her chest.  _This is for Buffy, _she reminds herself for the thousandth time._  So she’ll mean it when she smiles.  So she’ll be able to find some peace again.  So she’ll be happy.  If she can die for you, you can take down the Immortal for her.  _With a deep breath, she opens the door.

And instantly, all her nervousness is gone, evaporating at the sight of the Immortal’s annoyingoverdoneembellished perfection.  Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in his suit, teeth too white, face too gorgeous, accent too sexy when he greets her.  He looks more plastic than the Buffybot ever dreamed of being, and not for the first time, Dawn wonders why no one else seems to be able to see it.

She feels a smile—an evil smirk Spike would be proud of—spread across her face as confidence thrums through her.  _Oh, yeah.  This wanker is going **down**._

“Hey.  Come on in,” she waves her hand magnanimously, gesturing him into the sitting area.  “I’m afraid Buffy’s going to be a bit late.  Slayer business, and all that.  You know how it is.”

“Well, _carina_, I can step out, attend to some business while I wait for your lovely sister—“

“Oh, no need.  I actually had a few questions for you, if that’s cool with you.”

The Immortal settles himself on the coach like he’s posing for a painting, and she can’t help but compare his posture to Spike’s boneless sprawl.  She sits down across from him, crossing her legs, picking up a folder from the table and lounging comfortably as she flips through the papers inside.  The Immortal arches an eyebrow, and Dawn feels _powerful_. 

“Of course, _carina_.  Anything for the sister of my beloved Buffy.”  God, she hates the way he says her sister’s name, making it sound foreign and ridiculous (_the one time Buffy has mentioned Spike since Sunnydale she said that she missed the way he always said her name like it was the most gorgeous word in any language, like it was a prayer, like it was worship.  Dawn never actually heard him say it that way, but she’s pretty impressed that _anyone _could make a name as ridiculous as her sister’s sound that way.  Yet another reason Buffy needs Spike back instead of this git_).

“Fabulous.  You know I’m a scholar, and I always want to learn everything that I can.  So let’s start with something simple, all right?”

“Of course, _carina_.” 

Dawn pins him with a look.  “Just why didn’t you tell Buffy that Angel and Spike were in town?  Considering that she thinks Spike is dead and that she still gets all worked up whenever Angel’s mentioned, I would have thought she would have been interested in that information.”

The Immortal merely looks amused, but that’s alright.  This is just her opening salvo, to let him know she’s on to him.  The juicy stuff comes later.  “Now, _carina_, what benefit would it have been to your sister to know such things?  Those little boys are part of her past.  She has moved on and has no need for them holding her back any longer.  Why shouldn’t I allow her to continue to be as happy as she is now?”

_You’ve never _seen_ Buffy happy, bastard. _“Yeah, well, that’s not what I really wanted to ask you.”

“No?”

“No.”  She leans forward, handing him the folder.  “One of the most valuable things you learn living on a Hellmouth is to keep your eyes open.”  He takes the folder from her and flips it open.  “You never know when someone seemingly innocuous is going to turn out to be incredibly…evil.  And that’s one lesson I’ve learned very, very well.”

She settles back in the chair, lazily playing with a lock of hair and smirking as he flips through the pages she’s assembled.  She’s never felt so confident, so absolutely certain that everything will unfold exactly as she planned it.  It feels _good_.

The Immortal finally raises his too-beautiful eyes to hers.  They still contain amusement, but there’s a hint of respect there now that was never there before, as well as a glint of something she can’t name because no one has ever directed it at her before.  “What is this, _bella_?”

“That,” she says, straightening a bit, “is all the dirt I could find on you.  Of course, that’s only over the last thirty years or so.  I’m sure I could find some more if I looked back far enough.  After all, you’ve been in Rome since it was founded, haven’t you?  I’m sure you have _millennia_ of questionable actions and gray morality for me to choose from.”  She tosses him a smirk.

“Well.”  He sets the folder aside, steeples his fingers in front of his mouth and smirks back.  “You’ve certainly got me in a corner, haven’t you, _bella_?  What is it that you want?”

_Bingo_.  She rises, moving to pace around the room, not in nervousness this time, but in giddy victory.  “I want you to break things off with Buffy.  Tonight.  I want you to do it gently and kindly.  Maybe buy her a pretty piece of jewelry or something.  Tell her she’s wonderful and that’s she’s far out of your league.”  He looks a bit taken aback by that demand, but she continues.  “And then I never want you to see her again.  Never contact her.  If you hear of some threat or some sort of stirring evil that requires a Slayer’s attention, you get in touch with either me or Rupert Giles.  And in a couple of weeks’ time when you hear that Buffy is back with William the Bloody, you aren’t to do a thing about it.  As a matter of fact, leave Spike alone.”  Then, a bit more grudgingly, “Angel, too.  I want you out of all of our lives, got it?”

After a stretch of silence, he rises perfectly gracefully, studying her solemnly for a moment.

“Well?  Any questions, or have I made myself clear?”

And then a smile breaks across his face.  But it isn’t the kind that she’s used to: synthetic and annoying.  No, this is a real, genuine smile of absolute delight, and it shakes her a bit.  For a moment, she can almost understand what it is everyone sees in him.  “Crystal, _bella_.  You have gone up against the Immortal and won.  Not many can claim such a victory.  As a matter of fact, I believe you are one of only three since the founding of Rome.  But the barbarian hoards had nothing on you, you magnificent creature.”

_Huh?_  He’s supposed to be storming out, yelling at her, or sorrowfully admitting defeat, not taking her hand in his and dropping a sensual kiss on her palm.  _Ugh!  _But she doesn’t jerk her hand back.

“And you know, _bella_?  I do not even mind losing.  Or giving up your sister, as delightful as she is.  Not now that you have defeated me so absolutely.  I prostrate myself before your lovely feet and admit my surrender.”  He drops to one knee and kisses her hand again, then releases it.  She stares at him, slightly dazed, as he rises.

“I will wait for your sister below and follow every word of your instruction, my little Minerva, my Diana.”  He pauses when he reaches the door and turns again to face her, that real smile stretching across his face.  “But in a year or two, my Venus, when you have grown up a bit….”  He trails off suggestively, letting his eyes rove appreciatively over her body.  She gapes at him as he continues.  “And in the interval, should you ever need any assistance, should I ever be able to provide anything of benefit to you, merely get in touch with me, and I will ensure that you receive what you want if it is within my power.  _Anything_ you want.”  He winks at her.  “_Ever_.”

Then, with a _Goodnight, bella_, he steps out and closes the door behind him.

Dawn collapses into her chair.  Yeah, she got what she wanted all right, so why does she feel so confused?

\--

Later, Dawn is jarred out of deep thoughts by the sound of her door opening and shutting, a shadow slipping into the room.  She hasn’t been able to sleep a wink.  She’d paced some more after the Immortal left, then made some cannoli she hadn’t been able to sit still long enough to eat, flipped through every channel on the TV, picked up a half dozen books and magazines, only to toss them aside.  She’d leapt to her feet again when Buffy returned home, but her sister’s reaction was a little anticlimactic. 

“Well, Dawnie,” she said with a little sigh, “you’ll be glad to know you won’t be seeing him again.”  She rested her scythe against the wall by the door and shook her head when Dawn opened her mouth to protest.  “You don’t have to lie, Dawn.  I know you never liked him.  But it’s over now, and I doubt he’ll come around.  He made it seem pretty final.  Now, if you want to go to that new exhibition tomorrow, you’d better head to bed.”

And Dawn had done so, though she hasn’t been able to relax enough to come anywhere close to sleep.  There are too many emotions rushing through her: relief that Buffy seemed to take the breakup in stride.  Jubilation at having pulled off her plan so smoothly.  And a lot of confusion at the Immortal’s reaction to it.

But she doesn’t like to think about that last, so she’d turned her thoughts back towards planning the next stage of what Andrew has taken to calling Mission: True Love (_yeah, he’s every bit that cheesy.  He even has a theme song to accompany it: the song at the end of _The Princess Bride_.  He’s taken to humming it whenever Buffy is in the room, and the Slayer has threatened to kill him more than once if he doesn’t shut up_).  Yeah, things have gone great so far, but the next phase of the plan will involve a number of people who are known to throw off every plan involving them.

But she shoves those thoughts aside, too, as the shadowy figure makes its way over to the bed and settles on the edge.

“Move over,” Buffy whispers in a watery voice, and Dawn does, allowing her sister to climb under the covers beside her.

“Buffy?  What’s wrong?”

Sniff.  “Nothing.”

But Buffy’s laid her head on Dawn’s shoulder, and the younger Summers woman can feel tears soaking through the fabric of her t-shirt.

“Buffy…”

“It isn’t supposed to hurt this much!”  And then she’s really crying, her face buried in Dawn’s shoulder, and Dawn is overcome with a sudden rush of panic.  She wraps her arm around her sister, pulling her close.

And it’s at that moment that she first starts to feel guilty.

It hadn’t even _occurred _to her that Buffy might actually feel the loss of the Immortal.  After all, it was clear to anyone that she was using him as the rebound guy, as a distraction from remembering that her whole hometown, her whole way of life, her lover and the graves of her friends and family were swallowed up in just a few moments’ time.  _Surely_ she couldn’t take any guy who wore that cologne and smiled that charmingly and called himself the Immortal seriously…could she?  (_A memory of his real smile flashes through Dawn’s mind, but she rejects it violently._)  She’d thought that Buffy might be upset about yet _another_ relationship ending—Dawn’s heard her lament that she can’t keep a man often enough—but after her reaction when she got home, Dawn had thought she was in the clear.

“I miss him so much!”  Dawn’s shirt sleeve is soaked through.

She scrambles for a way to explain.  The last thing she ever meant to do was to cause her sister more pain.  _This wasn’t supposed to happen… _ “Buffy, I didn’t mean to—“

“He was always _there_.  And I told him to go so many times—and sometimes I even meant it—but he always stayed.”  The Slayer breaks down in tears again, and now Dawn is almost lightheaded and dizzy with relief, the feeling of it spreading warm through her, because she knows now that Buffy isn’t talking about the Immortal at all.  She’s finally, _finally_ talking about the right guy, finally thinking about the right guy.  _Took her long enough._

“I counted on that, you know?  I couldn’t count on things that other people could, like the sun coming up or the sky being blue, because in my world, the laws of nature could change in a moment.  But I could count on an apocalypse every spring, something crazy happening on Tuesday, and him being there.”

Dawn rests her cheek against the top of Buffy’s head.  “I know.”

“I keep expecting to see him.  To have him stroll up while I’m patrolling and start snarking about my technique or to find him outside waiting for me when I leave at night or for him to butt in in the middle of a Scooby meeting, and he just doesn’t.  And I feel so _lost_.  Like I don’t know which way is up anymore.”

“I know.”  She runs her fingers through her sister’s hair in that soothing way that Mom used to.

“And now I don’t even have someone to distract me!  Now I’m going to have to feel this hole in me all the time!  Dawn, what am I going to do?”

Dawn’s always been the more pragmatic of the Summers sisters.  Might as well keep the reputation, right?  “Well, I was thinking about London.  I know the weather and the food is great here and all, but it would be nice to see Giles and Willow again, don’t you think?  Just for a little while?  And maybe Xander could swing by to see us, too.”

Buffy sniffs, but her sobs have died down.  “I guess.”

“We can go shopping there—you’ve just about conquered everywhere in Rome.  We’ll go see a show that isn’t an opera, and we can have movie nights with Willow and you can annoy Giles and maybe work with the Slayers there if you want.  And plus, everybody speaks English!”

“I can finally throw out that stupid English-Italian dictionary,” Buffy agrees with a watery, shuddering laugh.  “All right.  I’ll book us a flight when we get up in the morning.  Two tickets to London, coming right up.”  It’s the _I’m being brave _voice, but it’s better than the nearly-indifferent one Dawn’s been hearing for months.

“Uh…four?”

“What?”

“Can we get four?”

“_Dawn_,” Buffy says warningly.  “You better not be about to say what I think you’re going to say.”

“But we can’t leave him alone without supervision!  Andrew _has _to come with us!  And Lessie was telling me just the other day that she wants to see more of the world.  We can enroll her at the Slayer school as soon as we get there.  _Please_, Buffy?”

“Fine,” Buffy says with a sigh.  “But I’m getting my ticket at the front of the plane and putting Andrew all the way in the back.  Got it?”

“Got it.”

Then they lapse into silence and, snuggled up to her sister, she finally relaxes enough to drift toward sleep.  She’s smiling as she does.

The first phase of her plan?  Complete.  Now.  On to the next one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title and summary quote come from "The Pomegranate" by Eavan Boland, one of my favorite poets.
> 
> Art by the very talented amyxaphania.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Love and blackmail are the gist of it." Dawn knows exactly what her sister needs in order to move on after Sunnydale--and exactly how to make it happen._

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/penny_lane_42/pic/00013aye/)

The thing Dawn had forgotten about London was just _how_ rainy it is. Sure, if you'd asked her back in Rome, she would have said that Roman weather tended toward the warm and sunny and London's toward the cool and rainy. But the blue and gold Roman days had softened her memories of the first few weeks the Scoobies spent in Merrie Olde (as Spike called it) after the closing of the Hellmouth. In Rome, the memories of London took on a softened hue until the dampness was more atmospheric than anything.

But she's painfully aware of London weather now with freezing water dripping down the back of her neck and weighing down her already-heavy hair.

"_Alba-mia_, I hate you," Lessie sniffles in a stage whisper.

"Sssh!" Dawn hisses. "This place echoes!" But she almost wants to apologize; Lessie had never been outside of Italy and Greece before this trip, and she's been appalled by the weather since they arrived. Their current location certainly isn't helping much.

Lessie huffs and tugs her jacket closer around her. "This is the worst place you could have chosen for this. The absolute worst."

Dawn shrugs and takes a look around the abandoned church, then glances up at the holes in the roof that are dripping rainwater on the Slayer and the two Watchers-in-training. They could move to another part of this balcony, but it wouldn't help; the whole roof is, as Andrew said earlier, more holey than it is holy (_and boy did that ever earn him groans and a swat upside the head_). They can't move downstairs, either; this balcony is the only place in the church that will allow them to see everything that goes on below. And Dawn is going to see _everything_. She's put too much hard work to miss anything. Even if it means shivers and moldy clothes.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," she whispers finally.

\--

_And it had. _

Turns out that when Buffy makes up her mind, things happen fast_. The Immortal dumped her Saturday night, she started packing Sunday morning (after a cappuccino and biscotti, of course) and bought plane tickets for Monday afternoon._

It was a good thing that the one place Dawn needed to visit before they left was one of the few places that was guaranteed to be open on Sunday.

After finishing her own breakfast, Dawn hurried to her room to gather what she'd need for Phase II of Mission: True Love (she hates Andrew for using that phrase so often that she thinks of it that way now_)._

"Have you settled on a place yet?" Lessie asked, flopping down on Dawn's bed.

"Yeah. There's an old abandoned church I stumbled on when we were in London before. Probably someone will restore it soon, but for now it's all boarded up."

"If it's boarded up," Andrew asked, "how will everyone get inside?"

She rolled her eyes, stuffing some folders into her bag. "They both have super-strength, Einstein. You think a few pieces of wood are going to stop them if they think the fate of the world is at stake? Besides, I figured out a way in through the cellar of the bell tower."

"Why this place, though?" Lessie asked.

"Guaranteed empty. Plus, it's old and historical enough that some bad mojo could feasibly go down there—it's supposed to have been built on the site of a temple of Mithras during the Rome period. And there's this great balcony thing where we'd be able to keep an eye on things. Oh," she added, zipping up her bag and swinging it onto her shoulder. "It's close to Giles's enormous house for ultimate convenience." She winked at Lessie and the other girl giggled.

"Convenience?" Andrew echoed. "Convenient for what?"

"So they can hurry there and have reunion sex, you idiot. You don't think they'll do it on the floor of some abandoned, half-collapsed building, do you?"

"Oh." Andrew's eyes went very wide and his cheeks very red. "Oooh."

"You stay here," Dawn said, pointing at him. "C'mon, Lessie."

Andrew pouted. "Why can't I come?"

"Because this is going to be a very delicate meeting. You'll be sure to say the wrong thing at the wrong time and blow it all."

\--

"I think these pigeons are possessed," Andrew says suddenly, eyeing the cooing birds that have taken up residence in the beams above them warily, his voice sharp in the silence of the church. "Their eyes are red and scary and…what are you looking at, tiny demon bird?" He kicks some dust at the pigeon at his feet, who cocks its head, coos, and hops towards him. "Save me!" he yelps, grabbing Lessie by the shoulders and shoving her in front of him. "I think it's trying to suck my soul out through my eyes!"

Dawn looks around frantically making sure no one has entered the building while he was complaining. Then she slips her hand into the pocket of her bag, eases out its contents and waves the object in front of Andrew's face. "What did I tell you? If you don't _be quiet_, I'm going to let Lessie make you be quiet. Got it?"

Lessie grins her badass Slayer smile as Andrew stares, horrified, at the duct tape and then gulps. "I—I'll be quiet."

"Good."

Blissful silence reigned for a few moments, then Lessie glances at her watch.

"Are you sure he's coming?"

"_Yes_. He'll be here."

"It's just that L.A. is a terribly long way for him to come."

"He'll be here. He's got almost as big of a hero-complex as Buffy, even if he doesn't want to admit it. I made him an offer he can't refuse."

\--

_She and Lessie stood for a full seven minutes in front of the big building, staring up at the beautiful edifice and squirming._

"Are you certain this is the only way?" Lessie asked again. "I don't like being involved with these…people."

"Me, neither. But, yeah. It's the only way."

As they walked toward the doors, the sun nearly blinded her as it glinted off the gold words above the entrance: Wolfram e Hart_._

Dawn disliked Ilona Costa Bianchi as soon as she saw her (Dawn's never been very fond of stereotypes, and this woman is every one she can think of_), but the CEO of Wolfram and Hart's Rome offices was all hugs and effusion, and when Dawn told her why she was there, she grew even more excited, bouncing and gushing and causing Lessie to roll her eyes._

"Spike! Of course! He is the very definition of handsome!"

"Yeah," Dawn agreed. "My sister, the Slayer_, sure thinks so, too."_

Something flashed in Ilona's eyes at Dawn's remark, but her façade of enthusiasm didn't waver. "Ah, yes. He mentioned something about the Slayer when he was here."

"He did?" Well, that was promising.

"Yes, yes. The Aurelian line was always so given to romance."

"Yeah, and the one Spike has with my sister? It's the most romantic of all."

"Ah, but I believe this Spike is in Los Angeles with the great Angelus. And your sister is here in Roma, is she not?"

"Temporarily. But they'll be together soon. And you'll get partial credit for reuniting them."

Ilona arched a brow. "I will?"

"Yes. Because you're going to do me a favor."

"I am?"

"Yes. You are. You're going to forge a document. Old. Preferably in some archaic demon language that hasn't been used in a millennia. I want it to be full of gory details about how the world is going to end when some demonic cult does some big ritual. Those details don't matter, just as long as they seem authentic. Here are some suggestions." She handed Ilona a folder. Since she wouldn't let him come along today, Andrew had insisted on being allowed to come up with some ideas, but she hadn't really had time to look over them; she just hoped they were half-way decent. "But the date and the place do matter. This church—" She slid a piece of paper on which she'd scribbled the name and address of the location of her plot— "built on the ruins of a temple to Mithras. At midnight, one week from today. Got it?"

"Why should I—"

"You get this document into Angel's hands, do you understand me? Make it absolutely clear that this is vital, apocalypse-y, world-ending big, and that only a souled vampire can stop it."

"Assuming that I do, in fact, carry out your instructions—an assumption which has yet to be confirmed—Angelus himself will want to carry out this mission; you know this to be true. In the end, either he will arrive at this rendezvous of yours or both of the vampires will. This is not your aim, I think."

Dawn couldn't keep herself from smirking. "Exactly. Which is why you're also going to arrange some sort of minor threat to Connor Reilly. He's a student at Stanford, and Angel has a bit of a soft spot for him. Trust me, he'll take off after Connor and let Spike take care of saving the world." Dawn had never been as excited by a piece of information as she was when she found out about Angel's son. She would never reveal just how she came across it, but it was the ultimate tidbit, and she was incredibly proud of herself for discovering it. Of course, Ilona had no need to know what his true relationship was to Angel; at this point, Buffy didn't even know, and Dawn sure as hell wasn't going to be the first to tell her. In fact, she hadn't told anyone—not Lessie and definitely not Andrew. She could only imagine what kind of danger Angel's son_ would be in if word got around that he had one, and if Andrew ever found out? Everyone in the dimension would know within the next fifteen seconds._

Still, she wasn't above using her knowledge of Angel's son as leverage when it was necessary, and making Buffy happy was definitely necessary.

"And why should I do any of this for you? You are a sister of the Slayer, and she has never been an ally of ours."

This was the question Dawn had been dreading, and she could feel her cheeks warming already. But her voice was steady when she said, "Because the Immortal says so."

Ilona paused in the motion of tossing her hair over her shoulder. It would have been funny, if Dawn wasn't trying so furiously to keep from blushing, and if Lessie wasn't staring at her in stunned silence. "The Immortal?" Ilona echoed.

"That's right. You call him and ask him. He'll tell you to do everything I say." She lifted her chin, trying to project confidence instead of little-girl self-consciousness. He had_ said so, and for some strange reason, she trusted him to keep his word. Of course, when he had told her he would do whatever she wished, she had sworn to herself that she would never, _ever_ take advantage of his offer. But this was _Wolfram and Hart_. How else would she get them to do what she told them to? They were the biggest evil there was, and there was no way blackmail would work on them, not even epic blackmail of the kind she'd thrown at the Immortal. Not when they knew that they were the most powerful organization on earth. No doubt they could blackmail her right back._

But she desperately, desperately_ hoped that Ilona wouldn't call the Immortal. He _would_ back her claims and convince Ilona to follow her instructions, but the last thing Dawn wanted was to have him know that she was actually taking him up on his offer. Instead, she was playing this like a bluff, and she thought she was doing it pretty well. Spike had taught her to play poker during that long, awful summer when Buffy was gone, and even he had to admit that she was far better at bluffing than he was. Then again, he'd always been a really bad liar._

So she scrounged up every bit of skill she'd learned (and perfected since then in hours of winning shower time and the last cookie in the box from the Potentials that last year in Sunnydale_) and shoved the small, desperate girl aside, instead radiating cool, indifferent confidence. She quirked a brow at Ilona (_yet another trick she'd learned from Spike_), as though to ask, "Do you really want to test me?" She slowly reached over to Ilona's desk and picked up the phone, then waved it in front of the buxom woman's face. "Well? Do you want to call him?"_

Ilona gave her a look like she knew exactly what Dawn was up to (maybe she wasn't as clueless as she seemed; she _was_ in charge of the Rome branch, after all, and you probably didn't get there by being stupid. Well, unless you were Angel_) and her smile was toothy and unpleasant. "No need. I will follow your every instruction."_

And that, as they say, was that.

\--

"I really don't think anyone's coming," Andrew says mournfully, tugging his London Fog raincoat closer around his shoulders. He looks kind of endearingly silly all dressed up in his Watcher-wear. At least on his days off, he still wears his Darth Vader t-shirt. "What if something went wrong? What if Angel _does_ show up? What if Spike was on a plane and the sun came up and he dissolved into dust in the wind?" And then, proving that he really _is_ the most annoying person alive, he starts to nervously hum the Kansas song under his breath. "Dust in the wind…"

"Okay, first of all, _be quieter_," Dawn commands. "Second, there's still ten minutes before midnight. They'll be here. Third, Angel's much too busy taking care of other things. And fourth, Spike is not an idiot; he's been traveling for centuries now. He knows how to book a flight without turning into the Human Torch, and oh my god, I have been hanging out with Andrew too much."

"All we are is dust in the wind…."

"And last of all," Lessie continues. "Stop singing!" She holds the duct tape directly under his nose, and he immediately ceases his anxious singing.

Satisfied, Lessie runs a hand through her damp curls. "But perhaps it will be Buffy who does not arrive. What if she sends another Slayer in her place?"

Dawn shakes her head. "She won't. Buffy still handles a lot of the big apocalypses herself. Remember that one a couple of months ago in Venice?"

Lessie and Andrew both wince. "Oooh, yeah," Andrew says. "That was a mess. Who knew demons could summon a death-bringer by dancing the polka? Truly the evilest of dances…"

"It wasn't the polka," Dawn corrects exasperated.

"It looked like the polka," he insists.

"Andrew," Lessie growls and pulls off a length of duct tape. Andrew's mouth shuts with a click, and he sits back down.

Lessie turns back to Dawn. "It was the Immortal who got her there in time, was it not? On his private jet? Perhaps he is not entirely useless after all."

Then Andrew drops his walkie-talkie (_the one he'd insisted on bringing with him_), and Lessie starts to berate him for his carelessness, but Dawn doesn't hear them. Instead, she's all too aware of the blush that's stealing across her cheeks, the one she can't fight no matter how hard she tries.

\--

_The ring the Immortal sent Buffy as a breakup present had an emerald the size of a golf ball and was accompanied by a note that said something cheesy about the jewel paling in comparison to her eyes. Buffy laughed when she opened the box: "I can't wear something like this! It would drag me down if I tried to stake anyone! Death number three, here I come!" She then tossed it on the dresser in her room at Giles's and mentioned something about selling it to fund Dawn's education._

Dawn found herself strangely pleased that the Immortal had actually listened to her suggestion about buying Buffy jewelry and just wished she'd advised him to buy something Buffy could actually wear. She was rolling her eyes at how off he was about her sister (just further proof that it was Spike that Buffy deserved to be with) when Giles mentioned that something had come for Dawn as well and that he had put it in her room.

Puzzled, Dawn hurried in to find a package waiting on her bed. She picked it up slowly, her heart starting to thud as she noticed that the return address was in Rome. She opened the box and peeled the brown paper away slowly, her hands trembling a bit, and somehow she wasn't surprised at all to find another black velvet box nestled inside the brown paper.

The necklace was stunning. Intricate and yet crafted in such a way that it could be worn with the fanciest of gowns or dressed down for a night of clubbing. There was no doubt whatsoever that the stones—fiery opals and stunning sapphires (and no, she didn't miss the fact that the latter were exactly the same shade as her eyes_)—and the white gold were all real. The vine-like swirls of metal were intricate without being ostentatious, and the jewels nestled gently inside them like captured stars. _

It was perfect.

So was the note.

My Venus,

I have possessed this necklace for a great many years, keeping it laid away in the seemingly vain hope of finding someone who is worthy to wear it. Its fragility is deceptive: its flawlessness lies not only in its exquisiteness but in its strength as well. Let it be a reminder to you whenever you wear it that that which is finely wrought is all the rarer for its strength and beauty.

Yours always.

_Dawn was_ infuriated.__

She stormed over to her purse, wrenched out her cellphone, and furiously punched buttons, scrolling through her contact list to find the number she was looking for (and yes, there _was_ a perfectly good reason that she had the Immortal's number in her phone; Buffy-the-Overprotective-Big-Sister had insisted back while they were dating, and Dawn had just never gotten around to deleting it_)._

He answered on the second ring, and by that time, she was breathing fire.

"Buongiorno_."_

"How dare you?"

There was silence on the other end of the phone. Then, "Little Venus?"

"Howdare_ you? You slept with my _sister_, you big perv! Along with half the population of Rome—over the last three thousand years!"_

"Bella, please—"

"And now you're sending me perfectly perfect jewelry and notes about how flawless I am? What. Is. Your. Problem?"

"Cara mia—"

"Don't call me that_! I'm sending you back your stupid necklace and you can give it to whichever woman you seduce next! I'd throw it away, but I'm sure the cost could feed a third world country for a decade, so I'd feel guilty."_

"Dawn."

She paused. She'd never heard him say her actual name before. "What?"

"I did not sleep with your sister."

After a few moments, Dawn shut her mouth, realizing that he couldn't see her gaping. "What_?"_

"Your sister was exquisite company—a golden delight. But she would not allow me to make love to her, or to truly see her heart. She just wanted to—how did she put it?—'have some fun.' And no one is better at showing fun to a lady than I am. I was patient with her, convinced she would one day put her grief behind her and offer herself to me. You see, I have had many lovers—human, vampire, many kinds of demons—but never a Slayer. I believed she could be what I have waited for. She had captured the attentions of two vampires—two souled vampires, no less. I thought she might be extraordinary. But you brought our time together to an end before I could find out."

A long pause. Then: "…You really didn't?" Dawn winced at how tiny her voice sounded.

"No, cara mia_. I did not. And as for my other…conquests, my reputation may be a bit…exaggerated."_

"Oh, yeah. I'm just sure you're a total monk."

"I would never claim that, little Venus. But neither am the god Cupid incarnate, doomed to live among mortals now that the power of the gods has disappeared along with man's faith in them, as so many say. I am merely a man…albeit a man with several millennia's worth of practice in the arts of love."

"So you didn't have an affair with Marilyn Monroe?"

"No, no. She was very lovely, but the rumor of her undying love for me ruining her for other men – it is baseless. The tragedy of her heart should not be lain at my door for a single night of amore_." He paused, releasing a soft indrawn breath Dawn hesitated to label as a sigh, continued, "Such a tragic girl. She was broken long before we crossed paths. And she knew that my life is dedicated to the pleasures of the flesh, not what I had come to believe was the useless pursuit of some ideal of eternal love. As all my lovers have known."_

"Oh, I get it. You're not a complete Lothario. You're so misunderstood. You haven't slept with ten thousand woman over the past millennia or so. It's only been, like, a couple thousand. We're talking low ballpark figures, right? Because that makes it so much better."

"Why judge past delights with a harsh eye that would strip away the beauty of the moment? True passion is a gift, bella_. A gift I have spent a millennia searching for. Unfortunately, I have never found it, and so have been forced to settle for the surface delights of the flesh, pursuing them to relieve my ennui. If my search has been in vain, then you would be right to judge me. But only as a fool if my past indiscretions had prevented me from attaining what I truly sought—or as a coward had I not the courage to pursue it once I found it. Would you make of me a tragic fool,_ cara mia_, or a coward?"_

"I'm not making you anything."

He chuckled softly. "No, not yet. Or has it already begun?"

She jerked the phone away from her ear. What the hell_? Who did he think he was, sending her jewelry, saying things like that to her? She was seventeen! He was…like thousands of years old! He was older than Spike, Angel, and Anya _combined_!_

Fury battled with embarrassment and manifested itself in shouting. "Don't call me again!" The bad thing about cellphones was that you couldn't slam them dramatically down in the cradle to hang them up. Pushing a button furiously wasn't nearly as satisfying. So Dawn opened her door and slammed it again, instead. She's always been very, very good at slamming doors.

Then she collapsed onto her bed.

\--

"Somebody's here!"

Andrew's voice startles Dawn out of her thoughts (_thank God—they were leading her to the last place she wanted to go_). Lessie slams her hand over his mouth to muffle his exclamation, but Dawn's too busy staring down at the boarded-up front door. There's a creaking, ripping sound of old wood giving way, and then a flash of gold slips through a newly-made hole, like a sunbeam gliding through. Buffy straightens, then brushes splinters off of her dress before looking around.

"Whoa. She looks like an _angel_." Lessie's obviously released Andrew, but Dawn doesn't care. Because he's right.

She's never seen her sister look quite so beautiful. She must have decided to go out dancing after stopping this apocalypse—which, really, when you think about it, is kind of Buffy in microcosm—and that's playing perfectly into Dawn's plan. _Thank _God_ for Buffy's recently rediscovered need to look hot while she kicks ass._

The iced gold dress she's wearing glints in the light from the candles Dawn had set up in standard ritual formation near the altar, and her hair looks like a halo in the moonlight streaming through the holes in the stained glass windows. Buffy's gained some weight since Sunnydale was destroyed; though she'd kept up her normal slaying duties and is in perfect fighting shape, she's lost that hollow, run-down look she had those last few years in Sunnydale. _Gelato and pesto will do that for you_. Dawn couldn't be more pleased with her sister's appearance; Spike's going to be so star-struck that maybe things won't devolve into yelling. Dawn crosses her fingers.

Buffy's started toward the altar, a stake in one hand, scythe in the other, but she spins around at the sound of more ripping boards and muttered curses. Even though she's practically bouncing with excitement, Dawn still manages to roll her eyes: Spike has always been such a drama queen.

He's still cursing as he stumbles through the gaping hole in the door, brushing furiously at his duster—which looks a lot less worn than Dawn remembers, strangely enough—and running a hand through his hair to dislodge the splinters there.

But then he snaps to attention, and Dawn can't help but grin: he's smelled her sister. Or sensed her. Or something vampire-y. A clatter of stake and scythe falling to the floor immediately follows, and then: "Spike?"

Buffy's voice is tinier than Dawn's ever heard it, and the hope there nearly breaks her heart. She'd _known_ that Buffy still felt this way. She'd always known it.

Andrew makes a noise like he's going to swoon at any moment, but Dawn just grabs Lessie's hand and holds on as tight as if she's the one with Slayer strength. Because Buffy and Spike are standing just a few yards apart, Buffy all golden, Spike all black and ivory in the candlelight. Those two have always had a weird sort of connection, like they don't have to speak to communicate, like they could just _look_ at each other and say everything they wanted to say. But this is taking it to a whole new level: it's almost as if there's something physical, a thread in the air between them, connecting them, vibrating with energy and something way too big for words.

Buffy takes a few tentative steps forward, then a few more, though Spike stays stock still, just staring at her with an intensity that makes Dawn feel like she should leave—or at the very least, cover Andrew's eyes. Buffy finally reaches him, and her trembling hand steals up to touch his cheek. As soon as her skin brushes his, she jerks back as if shocked, and, if possible, her eyes grow even wider.

"You're you?" she rasps. "You're not the First?"

Spike has to clear his throat before he speaks, and he still sounds like he's losing his voice. "It's me, Buffy."

The next moment his arms of full of trembling but dry-eyed Slayer, and Buffy's jerked his head down for a feverish kiss, and in the candlelight-dappled shadow of the church, they're nothing more than a tangle of gold, ivory, and black.

Andrew sighs happily. "It's so romantic." And Dawn can't help but agree.

But then Buffy pulls back, and even though Spike just transfers his mouth from her lips to her neck, she manages to gasp out, "What about the apocalypse? Is it you? I mean, because you're back? The mojo? I always knew this hair was one of the signs of the apocalypse." But she doesn't sound as concerned as she probably should; she's too busy raking her fingers through said apocalyptic hair.

"Not me, Slayer," Spike murmurs between kisses, and it's only the crazy-good acoustics of the building that allow the watchers in the balcony to hear him. "I'm here to stop it."

Buffy allows him to distract her for a few more moments, letting him tug her even closer, lifting her up to wrap her legs securely around his waist. Then, "I don't see anybody. Just candle-y ritualness. Isn't there supposed to be some sort of demon cult? Wanting to exterminate all life? The prophecy said that, but I hadn't heard of them. Something about Daleks?"

Dawn and Lessie whip their heads around to glare furiously at Andrew. "I _knew_ we should not have let him write the suggestions for the prophecy!" Lessie grits out, looming threateningly over a cowering Andrew.

"Never run into them myself, Slayer," Spike admits while nibbling at her collarbone. "But they sound familiar. Bit strange, that."

"Andrew Wells," Dawn announces calmly, keeping her voice low enough that it won't echo down to the couple on the floor. "I am going to _kill_ you."

Andrew throws his hand out and opens his mouth to protest—or beg for his life or whatever—but his motion disturbs the demon-eyed pigeons, and they take off with a squawk and a wild flap of wings, soaring like ungainly bats down past the still-embracing Slayer and vampire on the floor and out through the hole in the door.

At the sound of flapping wings, Buffy and Spike jerk apart and fall into fighting stance, back to back, weapons suddenly back in Buffy's hands, Spike in game face, and as lovely as they were before, Dawn thinks they're much more beautiful now. Beautiful and deadly.

Beautiful and deadly and…

_Uh-oh._

Because Spike's sniffing at the air, and Dawn knows that underneath the smell of pigeons, rotting wood, candle wax, and Buffy, he'll at any moment be able to discern….

"Niblet?"

His tone is just edgy enough that Dawn can't tell if he's furious or amused, but at his word, she sees Buffy press her lips together.

_I'm dead._

"Dawn Summers, you better show yourself!" Yeah, that's Buffy's authority-figure voice, alright.

Lessie and Andrew have both backed up into the shadows, but Dawn takes another step forward until the light from the candles hits her. Come to think of it, it's probably a better idea that Buffy never figures out that Andrew and Lessie were ever involved in this thing. Spike probably won't bother to tell her, and Dawn isn't going to, either. She waves her hand behind her back, letting them know that they need to slip out.

She's going to handle this one on her own. It was her idea after all.

"Hey, Buffy," she says sheepishly. "Hey, Spike."

"Get down here right now!"

Dawn whimpers.


	3. Love and Blackmail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Love and blackmail are the gist of it." Dawn knows exactly what her sister needs in order to move on after Sunnydale--and exactly how to make it happen._

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/penny_lane_42/pic/00013aye/)

 

_What are they_ doing_ in there?_ Dawn eyes the door of Buffy's room for the twenty-seventh time, then decides for the twenty-seventh time that she doesn't want to know. They've been in there for nearly an hour, ever since she and Buffy and Spike entered the flat and Spike jabbed a finger at the barstools at the kitchen counter, said, "Sit," and followed Buffy down the hall, the door closing behind them with an all-too-ominous click (_she could practically hear Andrew narrating it in her head_). All of _that_ had followed the walk from the church back to the flat. They'd made their way in tense silence, Dawn in front, Buffy and Spike behind her. She'd desperately wanted to turn around to see if they were holding hands or exchanging meaningful glances or something, but she didn't dare (_the only thing scarier than Spike's glare? Is Buffy's_).

And now she doesn't dare get closer to the door for fear that Spike will know it. Besides, she's heard a couple of thumps, sounds that could either be from fighting or sex—though with these two, she's not entirely sure there's ever been a difference.

She's pondering this when she hears the doorknob turning and hurriedly reaches over to the pile of magazines on the edge of the counter and grabs one at random, flipping it open to any old page and trying to look absorbed. It's _SFX_. An article about the upcoming, reimagined version of _Doctor Who_. Andrew. She's going to kill him.

She hears the door creak open and footsteps approaching. They're too heavy to be Buffy's, even at her most intimidating and authoritative. _So it's Spike, then_. She hadn't been sure which one of them would decide to deal with her, and she isn't sure now whether she's relieved or not. Buffy would be angrier—she's never been happy when people stick their noses into her love life, no matter how well-intentioned the nose-sticker may be—and Buffy's the one who can still discipline her, even if she doesn't do it very often anymore.

But Spike….Well, they never really got back to a good place again after she went all "you'll wake up on fire" on him, something she's spent a year regretting and trying to forgive herself—and, all right, she'll be honest: him, too—for. She'd told herself that he still loved her, that he'd never really stopped, but she doesn't really _know_ how he feels about her, and that gives her a wobbly sort of feeling, like she isn't really sure she knows how to walk straight anymore.

She raises her eyes to meet his as he settles onto the barstool beside her.

He doesn't say anything for a long moment—a very, very long moment, during which empires rise and fall and several stars collapse into black holes—just looks at her, and she studies him for a (_much shorter_) moment (_looking for signs of debauchery and/or violence_), until she has to drop her eyes under his gaze.

Then she feels his hand brush against her hair (_Spike's always had a thing about hair_), and hears him say, "Look at you, Little Bit. All grown up."

She fears tears burning in her eyes. Maybe everything will be all right after all.

"Or not so little, I reckon. Pandora didn't know what hell on earth she was unleashing when she let you out, Apate. Guess that means you aren't ever going to outgrow your devious sense of mischief, are you, then?"

She jerks her head up to meet his eyes again (_she missed those eyes, clear and blue and always meeting hers without flinching, even when they all figured out she wasn't real, even when she lost her mom, even when Buffy was gone. But not during that last year. Not after what he almost did to Buffy and what Dawn said to him. His eyes always told the difference_), swiping at the tear inching down her cheek. She recognizes the reference, of course—he helped her study for summer school while Buffy was gone, and he'd been invaluable in the mythology unit, William's classical education (_she's pretty sure she's still the only one who really knows that about him_) paying off. She'd loved the story of Pandora (_he made lots of cracks about her curiosity and various grisly ways he'd killed cats over the centuries_), and all the gods and goddess and demons who'd come howling out of the box when the first woman opened it, but Apate, the goddess of deceit, was the only one whose name she could easily remember (_fitting, he'd said. She couldn't argue_).

Maybe it's that memory as much as anything else, a memory of a time when they were _soclose_ and she didn't doubt his love at all, that's prompting her tears. But it's her little-girl fear that prompts her words. "She's been so _unhappy_, Spike. She keeps up a good front, but….I couldn't stand to see her like that! And I knew she had to be missing you so bad, because I was, too, and…and I just wanted you both to be happy!"

His mouth quirks a bit. "So you got Andrew and your Slayer friend to blackmail that wanker the Immortal and forge false prophecies?"

She gapes at him. "How did you—"

"For all we're blonde, neither your big sis nor I are stupid. But that's quite the story, Apate. I want to hear all the devious bits sometime, yeah?"

She flushes again, whether from pleasure that he still cares enough to come up with some new and private-joke-related nickname or at the idea of telling him the whole story of her elaborate plan, she doesn't know. "Yeah. Sometime." Then something occurs to her, and she looks up again, with hopeful eyes. "Does that mean you'll be around?" She keeps her hands in her lap, even though she kind of wants to clasp them under her chin in a way-too-cliché demonstration of hopefulness.

"Might at that. Angel'll still need me to pop in from time to time to haul his ass out of trouble—the Poof doesn't know which way is up without Cordelia there to tell him anymore—but London's not so bad. Missed being able to get a decent pint anytime I wanted it. And watching Man U matches in the pubs. Might not be so bad to stick around."

He's trying to play it cool, but Dawn can tell he's fighting to keep from breaking out into a smile. Now she's _really_ glad she didn't interrupt whatever was happening between him and her sister behind that door, because they're obviously headed in the right direction. She's not so naïve as to think that they've figured it all out or that there won't be lots of loud arguments ahead, but hey. It's a start.

She leans back against the back of the barstool. "Oh, yeah. I'm _good_."

"_You're_ good?"

"Well, yeah! My plan totally worked, didn't it? You're here, you're smiling, and don't even pretend like Buffy's not grinning behind that door right now. I. Am. _Good._"

He shakes his head, but he finally lets his grin slip through, the half-fond, half-exasperated one she remembers he used to give her when she beat him at poker or when she learned how to hotwire a car. It gives her warm fuzzies in a way nothing else does. "You're hopeless, Niblet. Incorrigible."

She snorts. "Like you're not? Besides, who cares how I did it? Everything turned out all right, and the world's finally like it's supposed to be and—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Bit. Know you're given to hyperbolizing, but the world's far from well. Still got poverty and big scary demons and loads and loads of restaurants that haven't discovered the wonders of fried onion blossoms."

"I _know_ that. But everything's been so messed up since Sunnydale. We're all scattered and you and Anya and Tara were…and there are all these Slayers to take care of and Buffy never smiled and—" She stops abruptly, biting her lip. She won't cry. Not because she's ashamed for him to see her that way (_they'd both been witness to each other's tears during that summer when Buffy was gone, and though they never really talked about it, they somehow managed to assure each other that they didn't need to ever be self-conscious about it. That certainty, that she could break apart and that Spike wouldn't think any less of her, had been one of the few things that got her through that summer_), but because she's told herself that she's moved past this. Not past the memories, of course, but past that weeping and gnashing of teeth. She's had a year to mourn; shouldn't that be enough to get to the point where she can talk about this without falling apart? Or maybe it's just Spike. He's always made her feel safe enough to be weak.

"I just thought that if this one thing was right…" She shrugs helplessly and swipes at her cheeks again, this time with both hands. "If Buffy was happy with someone I love, too, it would be like when you're little and your parents are together and happy, and you know everything will be okay."

Spike sits silently for a moment, pondering this. Then: "Are you going to start calling me dad now?"

"Spike!" She rams her shoulder into his, and his arm slips around her, tugging her close till she can feel his laughter stirring her hair. _This is right_. This is what she'd been missing for years, having her big brother beside her and laughing and tugging on her hair. She's glad she hasn't cut it again. Right after Sunnydale, she and Buffy both chopped theirs shorter—not together, or a planned thing, but they both came home one day (_they were in London then, before Rome_), with it shorter. Mom had done the same thing after the divorce, and also when her own mom died, and Buffy says it's a Summers woman way of mourning.

Since then, though, they'd both been growing it out, and Dawn knows that Spike's glad. Besides, her hair's always been her favorite feature, the first thing people notice about her, and it's nice to know it's there, even though it's not like she's trying to get anybody to notice her and—

_Don't go there,_ she warns herself furiously. _If you start, you'll keep going, and he'll see right through you. He always does._

But as she settles back into her own seat, the words still come out, anyway: "Spike? You were evil. Really evil, not just…morally ambiguous. I mean, I never really saw it, but I know you were."

He looks at her, one eyebrow lifted in that so familiar Spike-ly way, and kicks at his foot with hers. "You know this, Apate."

"I know. But you loved Buffy so much that you became good—you…completely changed your metaphysical existence for her."

He twirls a lock of hair around his finger. "Not just for her, Bit. Know that's what it looks like from the outside, but it was always a bit more complicated than 'love redeems.'"

"More complicated how? It looked pretty straightforward to me. Spike falls in love with Buffy, Buffy won't have him without a soul, Spike gets a soul. The end."

He snorts now and rolls his eyes, too. "Not bloody likely. Look, Sweet. I wasn't good on my own. Sure, I feel for Buffy, and for you and your mum, too, a bit, and I wanted you all to be safe. But I wasn't _good_. I was too selfish for that. That's what being a demon _is_. All that selfishness that your conscience keeps in check? Runs free in a vamp. So here I was, wanting what I wanted, when I wanted it, but then there was big sis and you and the bloody chip, and I didn't know which way was up. And then I went and did the one thing I thought I'd never do. Broke my only absolute law. I could have killed someone, destroyed the world, and it wouldn't have sent me into a tailspin like that. I realized being around you lot, losing Buffy like I did had made me develop a…moral law of sorts: I didn't hurt Buffy. And then I did, and I realized that I couldn't be good on my own, but I couldn't be bad either, and I really just needed to come down on one side or the other. Couldn't live with myself the way I was. So sure, Buffy was the catalyst. But nobody changes unless they want to change themselves."

She props up her chin on her fist as she muses on this.

_Don't ask, don't ask, don't ask…_ "Do you think anyone can be redeemed?"

"Don't know about that. Most vamps, probably not. They don't have souls or chips to give them enough time to start to care about something as fragile as a human, and so they don't develop any sort of a conscience at all. But anything that has a conscience? That still feels a little pang sometimes when it gives in to the selfishness? Yeah, I'd say that anyone can be redeemed."

She's glad her hair's hanging down, blocking his view so that he can't see the lobster impression she's doing right now, what with the blushing. "What about for love? Can someone love someone the way you love Buffy and become good? Just for love?"

"Love could be the prod, sure. I suspect they'd have to have another reason, too."

_Don't ask, don't ask, don't ask…_ "Like what kind of reason?"

"Maybe they're tired of being selfish. Maybe they've found themselves alone. Maybe because they've just been waiting for an excuse all along."

She doesn't even try to label the buoyant feeling that rises up inside her (_it isn't hope. It definitely, definitely isn't_). Instead, she just says, "Yeah. Maybe."

She almost panics, though, at what he says next. "You do realize that you're going to have to tell me why you're asking me this, don't you, Bit?"

"Um, yeah."

"In a few days, when I get settled in."

"I know."

"I won't forget."

_No. He never does. But that'll give me some time to come up with something good._ "We can talk about it after I tell you all the details of _Mission: True Love_."

One of her very favorite things in all the world (_besides watching John Hughes movies with her sister, playing around with crazy food combinations in the kitchen, and that triumphant feeling she gets when she masters some particularly complex bit of grammar in some long-dead demon language_) is making Spike sputter. And he's sputtering now. "Miss _what now_?"

She laughs at the look on his face, the same look Buffy gets when she tries one of Dawn's bacon-guacamole-and-mayonnaise wraps. "I might have let Andrew name it."

"I'm going to _bite_ that little git!"

"No biting in this house."

They both turn to see Buffy standing behind them looking simultaneously amused and chastising. Mom was always really good at that particular look, and Dawn wonders how they manage it. She's also wearing a robe now, instead of her gold dress. Now that _could_ mean she's just decided to get comfy because she's not going out again tonight. Or, it could mean the dress is now lying in shreds on her bedroom floor, the carnage of either fighting or….Dawn doesn't want to know.

"Not even the little boy?" Spike asks. "Daleks? I _knew_ those sounded familiar. _Doctor Who_, right?"

Buffy stares at him. "You watch that?"

"Love, the only person more British than the Doctor is the Queen herself. It's kind of hard to avoid."

"Whatever," Buffy says, typical American. "And no, no biting of Andrew. I'm going to think of a suitably bad punishment for him. Like no TV for a month and making him write a letter of appreciation to FOX thanking them for their wise broadcasting choices." She smiles proudly at Spike's snort. "And I'm going to let Lessie patrol with Kennedy for the next month."

Dawn gapes at her sister. Lessie _hates_ Kennedy. "Buffy! That's not fair!"

"And as for you, Miss I'm-Going-to-Manipulate-Everyone-with-My-Little-Sister-Superpowers, I'm thinking your clearance for the top secret 'Slayer Files' is gonna be revoked for a month while you focus on school—and, since you're so fond of Daleks, you'll also have to write a research paper, with one of those anorexia bible thingies?" Buffy waves her hand, searching for the right word.

Dawn stares at her, aghast, but Spike just rolls his eyes. "Annotated bibliographies, Slayer?"

"Yeah! One of those! On sci-fi geek culture using Andrew as a primary source. And, of course, the requisite menial labor—_lots_ of menial labor. I'm thinking the cabinets need to be repapered, and somebody needs to sort my shoes, too."

Dawn opens her mouth to protest this punishment—count on Buffy Summers, the one person alive who's seen heaven firsthand to come up with a series of punishments so hellish that it puts Dante to shame—but then closes it again. There's no way to get out of this now, and arguing will only result in more punishment. It's the Summers way.

"Dawn, you _have_ to learn to talk to people about things—" Buffy shoots an evil look at Spike when he makes an amused sound. "—instead of just using your powers of deception to get them to do what you want. How much easier would it have been if you'd come into my room and said, 'Buffy, Spike's back from the dead. Do you want me to book you a flight to L.A. so you can go find him?'"

_Sure, easier. But a lot less fun._ She thinks it, but doesn't say it. And she definitely doesn't continue that thought with, _And then I wouldn't have ever seen the Immortal really smile…_ No, instead she says, with just the right note of little-sisterly contrition, "Yeah. A lot easier."

Buffy's look tells her that her big sister sees right through her faux penitence, but says, "But it's been much too long of a day to deal with all that right now. So Spike and I are going to go back in my room—" She sends him a smoldering glance, and he returns it with one so filthy and loving all at the same time that Dawn has to look away. "—and you're going to go back to yours where you will, I'm sure, call Andrew and Lessie and warn them about my wrath that will be visited upon them shortly."

Dawn sighs as she watches Buffy grab Spike's hand and tug him along. The wrath of Buffy is not a thing to be sneezed at. But as she watches Spike pull her sister close and whisper something into her ear, as she hears Buffy giggle, as Spike tosses a wink over his shoulder and she returns it (_as she thinks about Spike's words about wanting a reason to change_), Dawn thinks it was definitely worth it.

 

Epilogue

_Yeah, this is the life._ Dawn tilts back her head, letting the sun caress her cheeks for a moment, then pops the last bite of tiramisu into her mouth and washes it down with the last swig of her latte. She tosses a few Euro in coins on the tiny table and gathers up the shopping bags at her feet before tucking her yellow-paged, cracked-binded books under her arm.

She'd _missed_ Rome; she'd forgotten how much. Sure, London is great, and she'd loved all of the last three years she spent there while completing the four year Watcher's training program in three and still finding time for friends and her sister. Weekdays were spent listening to lectures, pouring over ancient tomes in various libraries, or trotting around after Giles for her "apprenticeship" (_like her whole life thus far hadn't been an apprenticeship in itself_), but evenings meant fun with Andrew and Lessie and other friends—Slayers and watchers and others—they'd made, with the weekends dedicated to Buffy and Spike and whichever Scoobies happened to be hanging around. She'd gotten her own flat—tiny and drafty, but _hers_—lived through two or three disastrous roommates (_ones who easily made the three or four apocalypses she helped avert during the last three years pale in comparison, and speaking of pale, having a vampire as a roommate? Not such a good idea, especially if you didn't figure out that the roommate was a vampire until_ after_ she's already moved in. And the other two? Human, sure, but they made vampires look uncomplicated_) and one fantastic one (_Spike told her from the beginning that Clementar demons make the best roommates, if you don't mind the way they devour snack foods and the disappearing kittens; she should have just listened to him_). She'd gotten her heart broken once or twice and done her share of breaking, too. She'd mastered six languages, took up fencing and yoga, developed a fondness for bad British soap operas (_which she endlessly discussed with Spike, of course_), and graduated with honors.

She'd been _busy_. So busy that she hadn't let herself think about golden Roman days or pasta and wine or the sprawling complex of Vatican libraries full of original texts. Or about certain silver-tongued, way-too-charming-for-their-own-good—_Yeah, right, Summers. Not going there._

She hitches her books up where they're trying to slip out from under her arm and takes a turn into the _strada_ that will lead her past the Forum on her way back to the new flat she and Lessie have just picked out, and she lets her mind wander a bit.

She also hadn't let herself think much about the future. She'd known that there was no guarantee of which Slayer she'd be assigned to or where she'd end up—where the need was greatest changed almost daily, and she'd learned long ago that the only constant in life is change—and so she hadn't let herself plan past "graduate top of my class." But there had been this little niggling thought that refused to stop niggling: that maybe she'd get assigned to Lessie and they could go back to Rome and have adventures together, and she could fall in love with the city all over again, but this time as an adult, as a full-grown woman who knew who she was and what she wanted.

And now it's happened. It's weird, though: for all she's finally figured out who she is, she's still not sure what she wants. To be a good Watcher and keep Lessie alive as long as possible. To be a good sister (_to both Buffy _and_ Spike. And Xander and Willow and Andrew_) and a good scholar and a good warrior in the fight against evil. Maybe get one of those bright red Vespas and learn to pick out the best wine for each meal. But more specific than that? She doesn't really know.

But it doesn't matter. Looking at the city all laid out, tawny and warm as it basks in the late afternoon sunshine, she knows she'll figure it out. Whatever it is, she can get it.

She's just passing the Coliseum when she catches a glimpse of a suit so impressively (_expensively_) tailored that it stands out even here, and suddenly her heart's beating in her mouth.

Because it can't be.

But it is.

He's glancing down at his costs-more-than-Angel's-big-stupid-jet watch, and he's exactly, exactly like she remembers him.

And that? Pisses. Her. Off.

_That absolute_ wanker_! I so would see him on my very first day back in Rome! –that's how full of himself he is—always gotta be everywhere, all the time. And just look at him: so plastic and aloof and _ gah_! Marilyn Monroe my ass! He's worse than a two-timer; he's like a gaziollion-timer _jerk_, and I can't believe I wasted even five minutes thinking about him since I went away!_

But she has. She'll be in the middle of a particularly difficult translation (_declensions in ancient Slathian? Impossible_) or dancing her heart out at some sweat-and-strobe-light London club or watching some stupid movie with Andrew (_she'll never, ever admit that she's now seen _The Voyage Home_ and it's totally ridiculous whales thirteen times_) and she'd suddenly, for absolutely no (_good_) reason at all, wonder what he was doing. Or whether there was anything under that plastic veneer at all (_she's skeptical_) or if she was just imagining that grin (_and no, she absolutely, positively neverever_ever_ wondered how good he would have to be after multiple millennia of practicing—what did he call it? Oh, yeah—pleasures of the flesh_).

She suddenly realizes that she's practically trembling with fury at the memory of all that time she wasted on him (_really. That's why she's trembling_), and she hitches her books up under her arm again, preparing to march over to him and give him a piece of her mind (_and maybe the stiletto heel of her boot up his ass. That wouldn't be a bad idea_).

But.

Then.

He sees her. And for one moment, his face softens, goes wistful and fond and kind of…yearn-y. And she's clutching her shopping bag so tightly that her fingernails are digging into her palm and she's pretty sure she's sweating (_now? Of all times? To go all glisten-y?_) and she's positive she wouldn't be able to walk in a straight line even if her life depended on it.

But she doesn't need to. Because he's coming to _her_, pushing his way through the crowds, moving more quickly than she's ever seen him move before, like there's finally, finally (_after millennia of malaise_) something worth hurrying for.

(_And no, she's not even the slightest bit gratified—thrilled, jubilant, ecstatic, euphoric—that she's the thing that's worth hurrying for. And she's not so cliché as to immediately start wondering what it would be like to be his reason, the impetus for change, like Spike talked about that day three years ago—she's never forgotten a word of that conversation—when he told her anyone was capable of change. And she's not wondering if a fixer-upper would be worth it—it worked out for Buffy, after all—or imagining that he'd laugh if she told him that. She's not *pondering what would happen if she asked him out for espresso and told him that it definitely_ wasn't_ a date but that she just wants to see if he's capable of acting like a decent human being for five minutes instead of a Ken-doll wannabe._

All that? It's not racing through her mind. At all.)

And then he stops in front of her, close enough that she can smell him (_underneath that smidge-too-much aftershave, she thinks she can catch a scent of fabric-softener-and-man, and _God_, does it ever smell good_), but not so close as to make her feel uncomfortable. And he says, voice low and solemn even as a grin spreads across his face, "Little Venus?"

She feels her head jerk in something that approximates a negative, but she's not sure why. Maybe it's just denial that he's actually here, and smiling that smile she'd half-convinced herself she'd dreamed up, and looking at her like _that_.

"No? Let me try again. Dawn?"

She smiles.


End file.
